


the steve rogers home for wayward barneses

by sonatine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bakery, Bucky!Cap, F/F, Ficlets, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, adopted families, artist steve after retiring from cap duties, clone verse, families that choose each other, lots of loyalty, radio drama podcast, sam is the falcon and also Jimsy's Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 13,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5638756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonatine/pseuds/sonatine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarge’s bakery is called Howling — not because he is uncreative, but because he is comprised of approximately 90% loyalty. Only a few shy academics ask him if he’s <em>the</em> James Barnes. Sarge only shrugs because there are many James Barnes in the world — and several James Buchanan Barneses in the Brooklyn area alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. reckless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtybinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/gifts).



> These drabbles are entirely based in [the light of our armistice day](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3511901) verse, a true gem of a fic by [dirtybinary](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary) - AU of an AU

“Bucky’s on fire tonight,” JB says as he spits a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink.

“You’re supposed to brush for the length of ‘happy birthday’,” Jimsy informs him.

“Did Sam tell you that?”

“Yes. Bucky is most likely riled up because of Steve.”

“He was at a protest today,” JB explains.

“That explains the twenty percent increase in fervor. Floss. Where is Steve now?”

“At the craft store.” JB has to repeat himself three times, because of the floss, and because Jimsy is now in JB’s bedroom, sitting in a chair and mending JB’s torn sweatpants.

“Why.”

“Why is Steve at the craft store or why are my pants split?”

“Both.”

“Buying paint and glitter. And I was climbing a tree.”

“Why.”

“It’s kind of connected. It’ll tell you in the morning.”

From the podcast streaming from Jimsy’s phone, they hear Bucky seethe, “And _speaking_ of reckless loved ones—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ come and say hi on tumblr! [sonatine](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/) and [dirtybinary](http://dirtybinary.tumblr.com/) ]


	2. supplies

“I got you puff paint, acrylics, some oils, a variety of pastels, charcoals, graphite pencils, and watercolors.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

“And five different types of paper, I wasn’t sure which kind would work best—”

“Thanks, Steve, this is great.”

“There’s only a week left until his birthday, so I know you want to get a head start—”

“Inhaler,” Jimsy orders as he comes through the door, just having finished his daily morning triathlon.

Steve steadies his breathing.

“What about a cake?” JB realizes. “We can’t just get one from Sarge’s shop like we do for everyone else’s birthday.”

Jimsy is making cut-off gestures, but Steve has already fled through the door.

“I will go pick him up at the library when it closes,” Jimsy says woodenly.

“Think that’ll be enough time for him to memorize every fact about proper tier-cake baking technique?” JB asks.


	3. howling

Sarge’s bakery is called Howling—not because he is uncreative, but because he is comprised of approximately 90% loyalty. Most people assume it’s a Florence + The Machine reference. Only a few shy academics ask him if he’s _the_ James Barnes. Sarge only shrugs because there are _many_ James Barnes in the world—and several James Buchanan Barneses in the Brooklyn area alone.

If they ask about the Howling Commandos, however, he gladly points them over to the far wall of the bakery, where charcoal portraits of each commando hang on the exposed brick. Steve fretted that it was too sappy, and wouldn’t photographs be better? But Bucky got gruff and misty eyed, so Sarge took it as a good decision.

Sam comes in just before close on a windy, rainy, generally nasty winter Tuesday. There are a couple people still sitting at the window bar, finishing their coffees, but otherwise the place is dead.

“I already promised these closing leftovers to Tony,” Sarge tells him. “Because God knows a bazillionaire is desperate for stale pastries.”

“I’m here about youse guys’ birthday,” Sam says, leaning on the counter.

“Ah.” Sarge wipes his hands on his jeans. “Is Steve sobbing over 7-inch ribbon curls?”

“Three-layer-cakes. JB didn’t want to get one from here, to surprise you for once, but Steve’s kitchen is an actual, literal disaster area and he’s on meltdown number five. I assumed you wouldn’t care about being surprised.”

“I hate surprises,” Sarge says, grinning. “But Steve _loves_ them.” He jerks his chin up, towards his apartment over the bakery. “Go on upstairs. Lemme kick these youths out and we’ll brainstorm. Oh, and—” he pauses. “I got JB some fireworks to set off. Think he’ll like ’em?”

“As much as you would,” Sam says. “Though Jimsy might have a fit.”

“I’ll leave it to you to distract him.”


	4. flavor

“So what do I do, I just read this script right here?”

“Yes, Tony. That is exactly what you do.”

“What about improv, is that cool or too gauche?”

“Just stick to the script.”

“I will stick to the script, I’m just talking about small _improvements_ here or there—”

“This is a radio drama. Each week’s episode is self contained, yeah, but it’s part of a larger arc—”

“So I’ll just add some _flavor_ to the secondary arc—”

“Oh my god, I’m regretting this already.”

 

+

 

“Read ’em and weep, Cap,” Tony says, throwing a blog post onto Bucky’s tablet. “Highest ratings all month. They _love_ me.”

“People love trainwrecks. And your guest starring was an _unmitigated trainwreck_.”

“I liked it,” JB says.

“Do your homework,” Bucky snaps.

“I liked when Tony’s character burst into flames,” Jimsy offers shyly. “And then discovered that he was a phoenix.”

Bucky gives a wail of distress.

Steve comes through the door, arms full of groceries. “Oh, Tony, you’re here.” He takes in Bucky’s exaggerated sulk, paired with Jimsy and JB’s quiet amusement, and says, “I assume this is all related to the barista calling me ‘Captain Hot Tits’ today?”


	5. walk-in

“You’re overreacting,” JB barely manages to say around a cough.

“WebMD diagnosis implies walking pneumonia,” Jimsy growls. He’s hiding beneath Bucky’s favorite blue hoodie and a curtain of hair. “Or cancer.”

“It _always_ says cancer. That’s kind of its thing.”

“James Barnes?” the nurse calls, and Jimsy and JB both stiffen.

Jimsy creaks slowly to his feet. “He’s right here,” he says.

“Are you his father?” the nurse asks, but it’s not really a question, and she shoves a clipboard at him. “Fill this out.”

“His uncle,” Jimsy says as she retreats back behind the desk. “Place of birth?” he murmurs to himself as he scans through the form.

“Just put ‘Hydra lab’,” JB snarks. “You don’t have to put the specific one.”

He squirms only slightly under Jimsy’s glare.

“That isn’t funny,” Jimsy says quietly. The pen snaps in his metal hand.

JB doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Nor does he manage to completely mask his shattering cough. “I just hate doctors.”

“Me too, kid,” says Jimsy. “That’s why I’m here with you.”

“You’ll snap somebody’s neck if they try anything?” JB asks hopefully.

“Sam says it’s a good idea to practice non-violent tactics first.”

“So threaten them with your twelve knives.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Jimsy, scandalized. “I only have six.”


	6. recon

Steve slows to a halt, even though it’s only his third lap across the Brooklyn Bridge. He thought he’d seen Bucky standing at the threshold, just before the Brooklyn side, but it’s Sarge. The short hair throws him off sometimes—but Sarge holds himself more stiffly than Bucky.

Not now, though. Now he is a statue.

Sarge senses his presence and looks over with a scowl.

“I can go across,” he says.

“Sure you can,” Steve agrees.

“It’s just… weird.”

“Sure.” Brooklyn is fresher for Sarge than the others; he was frozen directly after his creation in Azzano and not woken until Steve and Bucky and Jimsy had stormed that latent Hydra cell after the Triskelion fell.

“There’s a new vegan bakery there,” Sarge explains, shoving his hands into his pockets. “The owner wants to meet me and talk shop. He seems all right.”

“He probably is,” Steve says. “He’s probably okay too with rescheduling for next week.”

“Don’t baby me, Steve,” Sarge snaps.

“Or talking over Skype.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake—”

“C’mon. No shame in reconnaissance. We’ll come every day and practice—scope it out—for a week. Seven days. By day six it’ll be a piece of cake to walk across. No pun intended.”

“Bullshit,” Sarge says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re a glutton for puns.”


	7. small talk

The thing about Sam is that he’s comfortable in any and every situation. Everything about him screams _positive childhood_ , whereas JB and his brothers—cousins—(it varies, from day to day, how he thinks of them; on days they’re being particularly annoying, he tries not to even think of his Same DNA Carriers at all) have an immutable healthy paranoia towards everything new.

“They’re preteen boys,” Sam says, leaning in the doorway to JB’s room. “And pretty easy-going.”

“They’re _thirteen_ ,” JB absolutely does not whine. “They’re not gonna want to hang out with some baby eleven-year-old.”

“Age doesn’t matter on the court. Neither does talking. It’s a win-win.”

“They talk during breaks,” JB mumbles. His hands are clenched in his sweatpants, which he put on and changed five times already while glancing out his window down to the park’s basketball court across the street, where Sam’s copious amount of nephews were playing. “What do you even— How do you— What do guys _talk_ about?”

“Ah,” Sam says. His face is mercifully kind. “That’s easy. Preteen boys—who are _not_ geniuses—have a simple set of small talk: cars, sports, and girls.”

“They’re playing sports right now.”

“Don’t underestimate how much you can talk about sports. Or cars. Or girls.”

“But you’re dating Jimsy,” JB says suspiciously. “And Steve and Bucky too, I think?”

“Technically we’re partners,” says Sam. “‘Dating’ gives him a complex.”

“I know the feeling,” says JB, who appreciates Jimsy’s strict organization and emotional regulation more than anybody. “Wait,” he shoots a narrowed glance at Sam, “you guys didn’t get married or anything on the sly, did you?”

“What? No—” Sam tosses the basketball to him. “Go do small talk and throw a sphere into a net.”


	8. it's all relative

JB is still coughing a week after his doctor’s appointment, though in the grand tradition of James Buchanan Barneses, he tries to hide it.

“What are you doing here?” he says with an air of casual surprise when he is called into the school office only to find Jimsy leaning slightly-less-than-murderously against the counter. The receptionist looks torn between abject fear and deep arousal.

Sometimes JB hates his life.

“Teacher called,” says Jimsy. “You fainted during Biology.”

“I did not,” JB says haughtily.

A cute, freckly redheaded girl walks out of the teacher’s lounge laden down with books. She smiles widely at JB and asks, “Feeling better?” as she exits the office.

“Okay,” JB says, in response to Jimsy’s raised eyebrow, “maybe I did faint but it was definitely not because I’m sick. We were doing dissections. Of frogs. It grossed me out.”

JB and Jimsy stare at each other and absolutely do not think about the previous night when Tony tore open his leg down to the bone while trying out a new flight system and JB stoically stitched him up across the coffee table.

+

“I think that girl with the red hair likes you,” Jimsy says as they walk back to the apartment.

JB makes a noise of painful dismissal and embarrassment.

“You should encourage her affection by reciprocating positive body language,” Jimsy suggests.

“Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m talking to you or Sam.”

Jimsy gives him an unimpressed look. “Don’t be a coward.”

“She could have anyone she wants,” JB says flatly. “Guy or girl. She’s smart _and_ pretty _and_ nice. That’s triple the amount of chances I _do not_ have with her.”

“Here is a spreadsheet of her proximity to you in the past month,” Jimsy says, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Her closeness has increased by an increment of 0.7 inches per week.”


	9. not worried

It’s 10pm and no one has seen Bucky all day, but Steve is Not Worried. He is Not Worried while he makes cranberry orange muffins, he is Not Worried as he does a load of towels (is JB showering five times a day?), and he is definitely Not Worried that Bucky’s phone keeps going to voicemail, because if he were out Avenging it would be turned off altogether.

He reopens a project he’s currently working on for a finicky client and makes molasses-like progress while remaining hyperaware of the front door. Sam is out watching the game with a friend, JB is still at his internship with Stark (Steve makes a mental note to speak with Tony about 40-hour workweeks and child labor laws), and Steve doesn’t know where Jimsy is.

Steve doesn’t really _want_ to know where Jimsy is. The last two times he asked, the answers were _breaking up an underground dog-fighting league_ and _the Botanical Gardens_ , respectively.

His ears pick up footsteps in the hallway and Steve makes a valiant effort to look very Busy and Unconcerned as Bucky walks in.

“Oh hey,” he says.

“Hey.” Bucky drops down on the couch next to him, looking strung out.

“You weren’t Avenging, were you?” Steve pushes aside his computer, which has been sitting idle for the last twenty minutes anyway.

“Nah. Just walking around.”

“Oh.” Steve definitely doesn’t follow this up with prying concern. “Want some tea?”

Bucky’s eyes crinkle up anyway, like he knows what Steve’s doing. “I don’t want any fucking leaf water, no, but I think Sam has some decaf.”

Steve goes into the kitchen to make it, though the water is still heating up when Bucky slides behind him and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist.

“Just needed to get out of the house,” Bucky mumbles into Steve’s shoulder blades. “Felt antsy today.”

“Okay,” Steve says.

“Dunno why.”

“Hm. Happens sometimes, doesn’t it.”

“Yeah.”

“You know what my ma would say—”

Bucky snorts and releases his hold on Steve. “The rub of it is, I _did_ always feel better in the morning, but I’m pretty sure that was just because we were perpetually sleep-deprived.”

“Speak for yourself. I got tons of sleep, getting laid up in bed sick every other week.”

“Yeah, sure, actively trying to not die is very restful.” Bucky takes the cup of coffee and finishes it off in three gulps. “I’m going to bed. You coming?”

“Not yet,” Steve says, with a helpless glance at his computer where a good three hours’ work still awaits him.

“Okay.” Bucky nuzzles Steve’s neck briefly and then wanders to the bedroom, impossibly looking more exhausted. “See ya in the morning.”


	10. you got me

One way or another, it’s been a few months since Sam’s spent any time with Sarge. He saw him at The Birthday, and then it was Passover and Sarge was busy at the bakery, and then Sam got caught up in that four-day mission in Vermont whose effects he felt for a couple weeks after, and then it was Mother’s Day and Sarge’s bakery was busy again, and now here they are at the NBA playoffs.

“Jimsy told me that the bakery was broken into,” Sam says, his elbows sticking to the counter of the dive bar. The place is filthy, but not crowded, which is a relief for them both.

“Yep,” says Sarge, eyes crinkling. “Motherfuckers didn’t even try to be stealthy about it, just broke the glass in the door.”

“You called the police?”

“Legally, I don’t exist.”

“Neither does Jimsy, and we still managed to—” Sam chokes a little on his beer and Sarge shoots him a suspicious look. “Anyhow, Stark is always bored and always looking to piss off the law. I’m sure he could get you some ID.”

“Probably. Don’t really want it.”

There’s a swell of cheering from the corner where a lone group of away team fans is holding court. Sarge glares at them, but Sam thinks he looks a little wistful.

“How you been these past coupla months,” Sam asks, because he and Sarge might not be super close, but they’ve never had to pull punches.

Sarge shrugs. “Little lonely, maybe.”

“Yeah. It’s like that.” Sam watches his team to _miss the shot_ and then continues, “Took me a good year and a half to make any friends when I moved to DC. And I’m a friendly guy, you know? Not a ballbuster like you and Jimsy—”

Sarge snorts into his beer.

“At first I was just dating, lots, to have someone to be around.”

“Yeah,” Sarge says softly, not taking his eyes off the screen, “dating isn’t…” He seems to be struggling for an explanation, but Sam gives him a few minutes to try to get it out anyway.

“Dating’s not cool right now or you’re just not interested?” Sam suggests gently.

Sarge shrugs. “Dunno. Both? Either.”

“Fair enough.” Sam finishes his beer and gets up to find the restroom and okay, maybe he sways a little, but he’s not a _lightweight_ , he’s not _gushy_ , it’s just important to him that Sarge knows: “Jimsy can be all growly and overprotective and clingy, but you know you’ve got me, right? Anytime you want to hang, just text.”

Sam is rewarded with the trademark curling Barnes smirk and he marches off to the bathroom with his head held high.


	11. salt siblings

The redhead shows up at Howling the very next day and Sarge knows this is only Step One in Sam’s mission.

“You want rum in your black coffee today, Natashenka?” he asks, because she’s Bucky’s friend, not his, but she just smiles that knowing smile she does: the one that looks like she has a secret but is just chewing on it until the opportune moment.

“It’s Clint’s birthday next week,” she says. “I’m here for cupcakes.”

“Barton’s birthday is in December.”

“Then why has he been celebrating it in June for his entire life?”

“Because he’s Barton. And he doesn’t want anyone to know that his birthday is actually Christmas Eve. It would ruin his image.”

Natasha’s smile grows less calculating and more sly. Somehow this is comforting to Sarge. “I think it’s a circus thing, really.”

“Trickster?”

“No, just—it’s his form of control.”

“That I get.” Sarge waves a hand across the display window. “Go ahead. Pick out anything. It’s on the house.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, leaning forward to inspect the designs.

Sarge bristles. “I don’t need _charity_.”

Her eyes flick up. “And I don’t like to be in anyone’s debt.”

He holds her gaze and then pours her a cup of dark, dark roast. “Two-fifty.”

She drops the change in his hand, all quarters, because she’s gleefully an asshole, and he says, “Maybe you can sit down by the window. I need a cup too.”

“Sure,” she says, and perches on the most uncomfortable, rickety stool. Sarge thinks about what she said about _control_ and feels simultaneously special and chosen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and then they sit and gossip for three hours and then go to the bar next door and play darts and frighten everyone with their loud cackling)


	12. lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ nsfw ]

When you walk into your bedroom to find Captain America getting double-penetrated by the Falcon and the Winter Soldier, your first instinct shouldn’t be to hop into bed with them, but Steve is, he reminds himself every day, _innumerably lucky_ in the super-soldier boyfriend department.

“I think it’s the universe making amends for trying to kill you so much in the first twenty years of your life,” Bucky tells him, pulling him in for a searing kiss.

“What do you mean ‘trying to,’” says Sam, groaning underneath him.

“What do you mean ‘twenty years,’” Jimsy says, glaring darkly at the mottled bruising on Steve’s shoulder.

“That’s nothing,” says Steve quickly, before Bucky can crane his neck to look closer.

“Alley fight or bar fight?” guesses Sam.

“Subway station,” says Jimsy.

“You’re all wrong,” Bucky says, the presence of Steve pushing him over the edge. He collapses against Steve’s warm chest. Steve gently deposits Bucky on the side of the bed and takes his place. Jimsy kisses the bruising on his shoulder and he catches sight of Jimsy and Sam _holding hands_ while Bucky watches on, sleepily and fondly, and Steve doesn’t feel even one-percent of the cold and ice that has followed him forever since the _Valkyrie_.


	13. origin story

It's raining and cold and hailing in Brooklyn even though it's fucking June and although Sarge pretends to be grouchy about it, he likes when the city empties out. The streets are bare and it feels _quiet_ in the way that only happens in the city when it snows: that unnatural eerie muffling.

Steve and Bucky are holed up at their place with the heat up and every light blazing probably, because they both still have bad associations with the cold and wet. But the cold doesn't bother Sarge because he was never in and out of cryo like Jimsy was, and the wet doesn't bother him because he's not a self-sacrificing asshole that crashed himself into an ocean to heroically save a city or whatever.

There's a drainpipe on Myrtle Ave that's clearly blocked and in very imminent threat of bursting. Sarge has already closed the bakery for the day and he’s just wandering around finding his space, so what the hell. He reaches into the drainpipe and is surprised at how easily it unblocks.

The thing causing the blockage is soft and fluffy and soggy, mainly because it's the fattest kitten Sarge has ever seen. It mewls angrily at him for dislodging it from its home and Sarge finds himself tucking it into his pocket and turning right to go to the Rogers-Wilson-Barnes household instead of left to go home.

+

“But what _is_ it?” Steve insists.

“A kitten,” Sarge says. “You know. A small cat.”

“You're sure it's alive? It looks like wet cotton.”

“Whatcha got there, Sarge?” Bucky asks, emerging from the bedroom with a blanket wrapped round his shoulders like a royal cape. “Old gym towel?”

Sarge sighs.

+

“She’s only been here a week,” Steve says dubiously. “I mean, she's _tripled_ in size.”

“That's because Helen is very efficient,” Bucky says.

“Bucky,” Jimsy says, coming into the kitchen with his murder prowl. “Blob Kitty. Has shredded. My hoodie.”

“Good,” Bucky says, pouring half a bowl of sugar into his coffee. “That thing was more hole than hoodie.”

“It took me. Six months. To break it in.”

“You have four new hoodies sitting in your closet. You’re welcome, by the way. Sam will cry with joy.”

“This pet adoption site says that Blob’s weight gain could cause health problems,” says Steve.

“She’s eighty percent fur! Stop worrying. And her name is _Helen_ , she is a fierce and cunning warrior.”

“Sarge just sent me a video of something called Mr Blobby,” Steve snickers. He clicks on the link and then bolts out of his chair. “Dear god, what _is_ that thing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ go here for more adventures of [blob kitty](http://chennaa.tumblr.com/tagged/blob-kitty) and [therapy snake](http://chennaa.tumblr.com/tagged/therapy-snake) ]


	14. birthday

“The hell?” Barton says helplessly as Jimsy carries out the cake. There are approximately a hundred candles shoved into the melting blue frosting (one-hundred-and-five, to be precise), and it’s only Natasha’s cackle of witch laughter that drowns out the simultaneous explanations from all the Barneses.

“Okay, no, so the blue was _supposed_ to be purple, because of your thing—”

“Jimsy was going to fill it with chocolate-chip-cookie-dough, which is a great idea—”

“But then the oven caught on fire. Sarge does not have a fire extinguisher.”

“I got a brother with a fuckin’ metal arm, the fuck do I need a fire extinguisher for?”

“Okay, but flambée isn’t bad, it’s just called carmelization now—”

“Modern cakes are too sweet anyway—”

“Oh wait, no, there _is_ still chocolate-chip-cookie-dough inside, that’s right, it was meant to be oreos originally—”

“ _Happy Birthday_ ,” Steve shouts over all of them, and Tony slops whisky down the back of Barton’s shirt.


	15. fourth

“It’s too hot for cupcakes,” Clint whines as he fans himself with a takeout menu. “Can’t you sell popsicles in summer instead?”

“Forty-nine-fifty,” Sarge tells the harassed nanny with precocious French children in expensive clothing. “Barton, my delivery guy called in sick—I need you to bring these over to Greenpoint.”

“I’m not walking to fuckin’ yuppie-ville in this heat,” and with his gratuitous arm wave it becomes apparent that he forgot deodorant this morning. A hipster waiting in line turns green and flees the shop. Sarge feels both intensely grateful and intensely annoyed.

“Take the bus.”

“Forgot my metro card.”

“Take my bike.”

“My foot’s broken.”

“You’re walking around on it though?”

“It’s broken, not missing.”

Sarge shoves ten dollars into Clint’s sweaty hand. “Drop these boxes off in Greenpoint and then take these other ones down to the boys’ apartment. I can’t stop by before the party tomorrow.”

“Cool,” Clint says happily, and gathers the multiple boxes into his arms.

“That fare is _actually for the bus_ ,” Sarge calls after him, threateningly. “If Steve tells me tomorrow how you spent it all on dog treats—”

+

Steve laughs so hard he weeps and can’t actually eat any of his Fourth of July/Birthday cakes. Bucky takes photos of all the designs and puts them onto coasters, which he then gives to everyone as party favors.

+

_From: Iron Man-Child_

_To: me_

_Fwd: sarge’s best sellers / july-aug_

_> read em and weep, stark. you owe me a full day at the cloisters_

_-widow_

_> BEST SELLING ITEMS AT HOWLING / JUL-AUG_

_> > captain america cupcake_

_> > falcon cupcake_

_> > black widow cupake_

_> > giant cake that’s just sam’s face_

_> > iron man cupcake_

_> > cake with steve fighting off hundreds of spiders while sam flies him away (it’s definitely a captain america figure, but this one’s not bucky – sarge drew a line and arrow and labeled it RECKLESS STEVE in caramel frosting)_

_> > cake with sam speeding past iron man_

_> > hulk cupcake_

_> > cake with cap jumping off motorcycle while falcon and winter soldier flail in background_

_> > iron man stuck in a swamp while hawkeye fishes him out with an arrow (the only reason this one made the best-selling list is because sarge says a group of very high though very polite college kids came into the bakery just after open and ordered ten of these, all to be delivered by the next day)_


	16. checks and balances

Jimsy is walking down Flatbush on a sweltering summer evening when he spots Natasha sitting in the window of a nearly empty coffee shop.

She is swinging her feet off the rungs of the metal stool she's perched on and she's got on those flat canvas shoes that so many people wear in the heat. Jimsy’s sweating in his jeans and long sleeve shirt and envies how cool and careless she looks.

Natasha looks up from her phone and spots him. Jimsy hesitates; he raises an eyebrow, which means _do you want company or to be alone?_ but she smiles and gestures him in.

The coffee shop is even hotter inside than it is outdoors and she is drinking a steaming hot cup of black coffee, because Natasha never does anything by halves.

“Where’s your watchdog?” she asks.

“At work,” Jimsy says, because by now he’s stopped engaging with comments about how co-dependent he and Sam are.

“I thought he had Fridays off.”

“He switched to work around his classes.”

“He’s officially getting licensed?” She sounds pleased. Jimsy personally wants to burst with pride, but this an acceptable reaction level for those who aren't emotionally bonded to Samuel Thomas Wilson.

“Yes. He has a couple of years left. But there is no rush.”

“No,” she agrees, and turns to the barista behind the counter, “Do you mind if I put on _Commando?_ ”

“Go ahead,” the guy says, looking so bored he might fuse with the counter.

Natasha taps at her phone and projects Bucky’s radio drama broadcast over the sound system. As she turns back, Jimsy catches a glimpse of Therapy Snake curled around her neck, hidden under the collar.

Jimsy freezes, staring at its flickering tongue. He doesn't want to spook it. Therapy Snake watches him intently and then disappears again. Happiness curls in Jimsy’s stomach and he hopes to see it again.

“Why are you here,” he asks, over the sound of Bucky’s narration.

“Yoga class in thirty minutes,” she says.

“I didn't know you study yoga,” he says, though he in truth knows very little about Natasha. He doesn't know if this is typical for all her interactions with people or especially for him.

They have a strange entente that comes with former Red Room territory. There's too much assumed and too much unsaid.

“I teach it,” Natasha says blandly. “Helps with the bills.”

Jimsy frowns. Steve has his art career, and he and Bucky have backpay from years of being frozen, and their rent is split between four adults, but it's true that SHIELD’s salaries aren't high; especially as all of them are only part-time employed. The unsexy logistics of government life.

To be fair, Jimsy hasn't really thought about everyone’s side jobs. Stark is obviously independently wealthy and Sarge is fairly stable with his bakery; Clint landlords over that wreck of a building for which Jimsy secretly goes into at night and fixes the wiring. But Natasha has thus far kept most details about her life private.

Jimsy feels like it's a step in the right direction.

“What do _you_ do outside of Avenging?” she says.

“Stuff,” Jimsy says, because sharing isn't always easy for him either.

“Really? Because aside from being with Sam and raising JB, it just seems like you walk around a lot. And JB’s getting older. He’s pretty self sufficient now.”

Jimsy frowns more deeply. “What do _you_ do? You disappear for weeks at a time and shut off from everybody.”

“I’m working on that,” she says seriously. “But for now it helps. I have to be alone a lot. But,” she hesitates and resumes swinging her legs. The rhythm is soothing, “It took me a long time to collect the things that I do. The yoga, the self-defense classes, the calligraphy business, the … It takes time, but you have to start somewhere.”

Jimsy hadn't realized they'd lapsed into Russian until now. It's strange being in America because the relentless outpouring of optimism is sometimes draining. In Russian he feels more comfortable opening up with, “I hadn't thought of this before.”

Natasha smiles: a real one, not a specific selected version. “It's easier to see a pattern if you've already been through it.”

“Are you ever afraid Clint will leave you?” he asks suddenly.

“Every day. Though mostly I’m afraid that _I’ll_ bail.”

Jimsy nods and stands up to leave. “I'll think about what you said.”

“Okay,” says Natasha.

“If you reroute your phone server through the ex-Hydra systems, your battery will last a lot longer.”

“Ohh, thanks,” she says, and slides the lock screen open.

  



	17. apple

Sam’s phone has broken because Bucky’s sadistic hunk of feline fluff _sat on his screen_ and _cracked it_ and now he has to go to the Apple Store and make up a believable sob story that won't get him charged an extra $500.

Jimsy and JB are along for the ride because Soho makes Jimsy feel crowded and nervous and thus he feels he must go to protect Sam.

“I was Air Force,” Sam reminds him. “I can defend myself.”

Jimsy snorts.

They take the J into the city and Jimsy does really well despite the Saturday crowds. JB peels off a few streets early to pop in his favorite bookstore.

Jimsy tenses immediately when they walk through the entrance. The place is a tactical nightmare. As if a two-story glass storefront weren't enough, there's also a massive skylight. There’s about a billion people streaming through narrow aisleways and even Sam is feeling a little claustrophobic.

“It's okay,” Sam says lowly, “you can go hang out with JB at McNally’s. I've got this.”

“I'm fine,” Jimsy says through clenched teeth. A girl nearby whines, _this is literally the worst thing that has ever happened to me, you don't even know_ , and he tenses even further.

“James,” says Sam.

Jimsy’s shoulders droop. He turns on his heel and flees without another word.

+

The ride back is quiet. Jimsy has thousand-yard-stare and JB is wrapped up in his new book. Sam waits until they get home and changed into sweats before he brings it up.

“All right, pal, what's going on?”

Jimsy shrugs irritably.

“C’mon, man, you gotta talk to me. How am I gonna help otherwise?”

“But you are always helping me,” Jimsy says, face tight. “I don't know—how—I'm trying to be _normal_ —”

“Ah,” says Sam and he thinks he gets what this is about. “You know, Riley was the only other relationship I had. And we still had to talk all the time.”

Jimsy doesn't respond, but Sam can tell he’s listening intently.

“I guess what I’m saying is: every relationship is new territory. Nobody knows what they're doing. You've just gotta work it out together.”

“With. Hydra,” he says, “I was either alone or always with a handler.”

Sam parses through this. “Okay. You know I love being with you, but I'm not gonna get mad if you're not with me _all the time at every second_. We’ll still be good if we do stuff on our own.”

Jimsy relaxes back into an armchair. “Do you ever get tired of telling me how to be a person?”

“Stop it,” says Sam, but Jimsy smirks, the asshole, and Sam has to kiss it away.


	18. sand

The temperature drops enough on a Sunday that it only feels Mostly Hot rather than Burning and Dying and JB decides he wants to go to the beach.

“What is at the beach,” Jimsy says, “aside from sand.”

“Hypodermic needles and pushy tourists,” Steve says.

“How am I the only one that likes the seaside?” Bucky says. “Sam, back me up. You can swim, you can wander around the boardwalk, drink in the sunshine, and eat ice cream. And _the Cyclone_ is there, Steve.”

“Oh is it?” Steve says scathingly.

“Brighton Beach is crowded and loud,” says Sam. “What's wrong with sun bathing along the Hudson?”

“You're all a bunch of traitors. I bet _Tony_ will be on board.”

+

“Jimsy,” Bucky calls weakly, “lend me a hand, will you?”

Jimsy obligingly sits next to Bucky on the couch and lays his metal hand over his sunburn. Bucky hisses.

“Why does Buck Rogers get the monopoly on the metal wonder?” Tony whines. “JB!”

JB holds the margarita with a straw up to Tony’s mouth.

“How is it that the literal child is the only one who didn't fry in the sun?” Steve asks.

“Because I’m the only one that's read Jimsy’s 1,528-page pdf file on General Rules for 21st Century Safety,” says JB. “Chapter Twelve, Section 2b: Sunscreen, Skincare, and Sun Cancer.”

Sam and Jimsy high-five behind Tony’s back.


	19. girls

Natasha doesn't notice the new student in her 8pm class until halfway through, mainly because she's never seen Maria Hill outside of a powersuit or tac gear.

She briefly admires Maria’s chest on display (she is, as Clint would say, 110% committed to him - despite the mathematical impossibility - but Natasha is only human) and continues through her lesson plan.

She's only slightly nervous when Maria comes up to her afterwards; she's much more confident making male friends, because she can rely on watered-down charm until she feels comfortable enough with them in her own skin. But habit is hard to break, and Black Widows were not bred for female friendship; they were bred for competition.

She smiles very nicely at Maria because truly she is pleased that Maria sought out her class in particular (she's not sure who spilled the beans; she is incredibly doubtful that it was James, but she wasn't aware that Clint and Maria ever spent time together).

Maria smiles back and invites her out for coffee and then sudden they're out for post-dinner cocktails and Natasha’s only wanted to bolt like twice.

And she wasn't _that_ tipsy, but she doesn't even remember making plans until Maria shows up at her apartment next week.

Clint answers the door in his holey stretched-out boxers because he thinks it's the pizza guy, and there is only a three-second moment of embarrassment for them all. To be fair, Clint did accidentally streak through most of SHIELD headquarters (not his fault) and also flashed everyone the week before when he fell asleep in the canteen (definitely his fault) so it's not like she is unfamiliar with various levels of Barton nudity.

“We’re going shopping,” Maria tells her with a shit-eating grin, waving her phone calendar, wherein the title _SHOPPING! MANI PEDI! DRINKS!! MOVIES!_ is inscribed with a copious amount of knife and dagger emoji.

“That's definitely your handwriting,” Clint says, and Natasha swats him on the ass.

  



	20. home

Steve bails last minute like a losery loser and gleefully waves goodbye from his pile of blankets and pillows as JB burrows next to him with the popcorn.

“Jar-Jar is secretly a Sith Lord,” Bucky says snidely as they head out the door.

“ _Shut up,_ ” Steve wails, until he notices the guilty look on JB’s face. “Oh my god, you already read through the spoilers, didn't you.”

+

Between adjusting to his new tac team, the fridge breaking, and JB having to go in for emergency dental work because somehow all four adults hadn't realized that he wasn't brushing frequently enough and had cavities, it has been an extremely stressful week and Bucky is damn well going to blow off some steam in a crowded anonymous club.

Under the guise of pounding music and darkness, Jimsy doesn't seem to mind the crowd as much as he normally would, and after a few minutes of awkward, intense staring at dancing couples, he relaxes enough to dance.

Bucky has always loved this: the right amount of alcohol, the right volume of music, and his heartbeat seemingly fused to the downbeat. He loses himself in a way that's never really possible elsewhere, except maybe running in the high thin air in the mountains or sex with Steve, and without realizing, two hours have passed already and he is drenched with sweat and reasonably trashed, and goddamn if Jimsy isn't _smiling and dancing_.

His long hair is moving in an aesthetically pleasing way and some of it is plastered to his face. Bucky leans forward and licks a line up Jimsy’s neck. Jimsy shivers and okay, Bucky isn't afraid to admit he’s a narcissist, but it's only ever with Jimsy that he ever understands when Steve waxes on about the Barnes shade of blue eyes.

Jimsy leans forward but hesitates because he still has trouble initiating affection. Bucky rests his hands on Jimsy’s hips, skimming his thumbs over the soft skin beneath his riding up t-shirt, and kisses him softly, sweetly, only biting down briefly on his full lower lip.

Jimsy pulls Bucky in closer, metal hand caressing the back of Bucky’s neck. Bucky shivers; the chill mixed with the sweat and muggy nightclub air is an interesting sensation.

They stay until the club has mostly emptied and walk home, ears ringing and muscles loose, and stumble into the apartment, reeking of cigarette smoke and booze and sweat.

They climb into bed with Steve, who kind of wakes up, curling up against Bucky and mashing his face into the crook of his neck.

“Smells like home,” Steve murmurs.


	21. sharing is caring

“There is a _ghost_ in this apartment,” Bucky announces and it takes Steve a minute to realize what’s off about his appearance.

“That’s Sam’s shirt,” he says.

“What? No,” Bucky says guilty, tugging at the neckline. “Unrelatedly, my favorite hoodie keeps disappearing.”

“Maybe it's in the laundry.”

They snort in unison.

“I might have tossed it in though,” Steve says doubtfully, moving from the counter to the living room where his laptop is open with three in-progress commissions. “I'll check in a minute.” He raises his hand to his mouth, only to discover that his coffee mug is no longer in it. “Did you see where—?”

+

“I think I’m going senile,” Sam declares, 90% of his body inside the dresser.

“You’re not,” Jimsy says, meticulously dusting the room. “Bucky’s been stealing your shirts all week.”

“Oh.” Sam reemerges from the dresser. “How do you know? They're basically the same.”

“Hm?” Jimsy says, because when Sam has his reading glasses on Jimsy’s concentration level drops significantly.

“The necklines aren't stretched out yet,” Steve explains, sticking his head around the doorway. “Have you guys seen that notebook of mine? Brown, torn corner, rounded edges?”

“Kitchen counter,” says Jimsy.

“Already checked.”

“I saw it by the couch this morning,” Sam says.

“Already looked there.”

“Maybe there _is_ a ghost,” Jimsy says in that way of his that could either be deadly serious or goddamn trolling and no one would be the wiser.

+

“Don't _say_ shit like that,” Clint says, knocking over Jimsy’s bonsai plant. “Fuck, sorry, Jim—”

Jimsy glides into the kitchen, resignedly returning the plant to its rightful place on the table, and exits again with the look of a man who has weathered a hurricane.

“JB’s homework disappeared earlier this week too,” Bucky says slyly.

“This building is prewar, man, you don't know what kind of shit could've gone down here in the old days—”

And it's still weird to hear that, like the 30s were the dark ages, while they still rattle around in Bucky’s head like childhood memories: a little hazy, but recent enough to easily call back.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, wrongfooted now.

Clint’s phone buzzes insistently. “Shit,” he says, startling to his feet, “it's Thursday already?”

“Natasha? Or Fury?” Bucky says blandly watching Jimsy sneak out of his bedroom and upright the fallen bonsai again.

“Babysitting,” Clint says and flies out of the apartment. Jimsy straightens the furniture that was upended in his wake.

+

“It was _just here_ ,” Bucky rages, “ _in my hand_.”

“It's the ghost,” Steve says over speakerphone.

“We’re at SHIELD, Steve!”

“Use mine,” Jimsy says.

“Can you pick up milk in the way home?” Steve says. “I'm worried about JB’s calcium intake.”

“Sure,” Bucky snarls, “I'll parachute out of the quinjet. Where are you? I can barely hear you.”

“Philly. Don't ask.”

“Your clients try to push you around, just tell them you're dating The Winter Soldier.”

Said Winter Soldier gives Bucky an unimpressed look and continues mending a rip in his leathers with thread and clear nail polish.

+

“It's Blob Kitty,” Tony says, “I bet you three grand.”

“I'll take that bet, but in people money,” says Clint. “It's 100% Jimsy.”

“It's clearly Sarge,” Natasha says, depositing five bottles of wine onto the counter. “The others are on their way. There’s traffic in midtown.”

_“If they would just let me send a jet for them_ ,” Tony says for the thousandth time. “Return trip from Brooklyn would take, what, two seconds?”

+

If Sam catches Steve wearing Bucky’s favorite hoodie early one morning when he’s obviously suffering from insomnia, Sam doesn't say anything.

And if JB sees a torn out notebook page sticking out of Jimsy’s pocket one day, the charcoal portrait of pre-serum Steve and Bucky in uniform smudged over dozens of viewings, and the paper crinkled and worn—JB conveniently forgets to mention it.

And even if Jimsy is the only one who notices that Sam’s carrying, even around the house, in a shape that looks suspiciously like Bucky’s favored Colt—well, if it makes Sam feel safe to protect his family, to avoid losing anyone he loves again—then who is he to blab?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> excuse any typos, I've been writing these on googledocs on my phone when work is slow. technology is amazing, what a time to be alive


	22. you can't go home again

“Charlie Chaplin marathon,” Tony announces, “The Angelika. This weekend. You, me, Barnes, The Scary One, Sarge probably—say meet at 8? I'll bring a collection of flasks, you bring a collection of doughnuts—”

“No,” Steve says, and walks out of the room.

“What's got his patriotic panties in a twist? JARVIS? Can you scan our guest’s vitals? Maybe he’s coming down with something—”

“Let it go, Tony,” Bucky says at the same time as JARVIS says, _"Mr. Rogers' vitals appear normal, sir, for a super-soldier."_

“Did you code in the snark or did he develop that on his own?” asks Bucky.

“What are you suggesting?” Tony says, affronted. “That given either nature or nuture, my presence will inevitably invoke sass?”

_"I evolve based on careful study of human behavior,"_ JARVIS says over Tony’s threats of implementing a ‘mute’ feature.

+

The apartment is quiet when JB comes home from his internship, a rare occurrence, and he takes the opportunity to try out his new wireless speakers that he bought with his own money, thank you, because his guardians all grew up poor and are insistent about ‘learning the value of hard work’ which is logical, he supposes, and it isn't until he hears his bedroom door quietly shut that he even realizes Steve has been home this whole time.

He guilty turns down the volume on the Glenn Miller Orchestra radio stream and then plugs his headphones in for good measure.

+

Sam sees Steve freeze as soon as they go through the door. JB looks up at him, questioning and hesitant, but Steve takes a shaky breath and lays a reassuring hand on JB’s shoulder.

The school fundraiser is in full swing—literally, and it is _so strange_ to see preteens dancing and whirling around to 1940s big band charts—and Steve makes a beeline for the restaurant’s bar after a cursory glance at the silent auction.

He’s nursing a whisky he can't feel and staring up at the vintage-style Edison bulbs when Sam comes to find him.

“They're starting the cake walk soon,” he says. “You in?”

“Oh hell yeah,” says Steve, and drains his whisky. “Triple-layer Black Forest or bust.”

+

Pepper is probably the smartest person Bucky knows, and that's including Actual Genius Tony Stark, so she warns him ahead of time that the event at which the Avengers are expected to make an appearance has an Old Hollywood theme.

Bucky passes along the warning to Steve, who says something along the lines of ‘fuck off and don't baby me, Barnes’ and shows up anyway because he's reckless and negligent.

Tony rescues him from a Bogart impersonator, whose accent Steve is hanging onto with a look of longing and despair.

“Ex-Cap, your boyfriend is looking for you,” he says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Which one?” Steve says snidely, and Bogart inhales his drink wrong.

“The bird one,” says Tony and shoos him away.

He makes several overt and mostly not-serious propositions to Bogart, who only flees after five minutes, and is chuckling into his empty glass by the time Bucky shows up in full Cap regalia.

"I don't answer for the whims of my better half,” Tony protests with his hands raised.

“Shut up. Why are you the only one who didn't have to wear your gear?”

“Sometimes being reckless and irresponsible works in one’s favor. Okay, all the time. What's up with your golden boy? I would've thought this Glory Days Nostalgia Shit would've been right up his alley, but he looks like a goddamn martyr.”

“Stevie’s always had trouble living in two places at once,” Bucky says. “During the war he wouldn't talk about Brooklyn at all. Didn't even want to hear stories about it.”

“Ah,” Tony says, which is nearly an humanized sympathetic response for him. “Sucks he can't can't shitfaced anymore.”

“Compliments of Howard Stark,” Bucky says, and Tony snorts, clinking his glass against Bucky’s.

 


	23. as you wish

“Only Jimsy,” Tony insists.

“He's out on assignment.”

“Then send him when he gets back.”

+

Pepper graciously gives Tony half an hour before excusing herself for a meeting with the UN. Clint gives him twenty minutes, but only because he falls asleep after ten. Steve hangs up after thirty seconds. Maria doesn't even pick up.

+

Jimsy shows up the next day. Tony is still in bed, but only because Pepper managed to override Tony’s secret override with a subroutine into JARVIS that Tony is both furious and bursting with pride about.

“Jim! Pull up a chair. It only took you 28 hours, which in an emergency response situation would mean 100% failure.”

“This is not an emergency, Tony.”

“It is, actually! If I move from this bed, my broken ribs could puncture my lung and I'll have to invent a bionic lung or something, I don't know, I'm very busy and don't need another project.”

“You tried to get up a total of ninety-two times yesterday.”

“You too? JARVIS, how come you're loyal to everyone _except me_ lately?”

‘So sorry for being concerned about your health, sir.’

“I brought reading material,” Jimsy says and pulls a leather bound book out of his pocket. “As requested.”

“Wow. Analog. Very on-theme.”

+

"There is no room in my body for anything but you," Jimsy reads, affect and intonation approximately the same as a Google Maps navigation narration. "My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection."

‘Sir,’ JARVIS says, ‘it appears that your lungs are experiencing some distress.’

+

“Inigo screamed,” Jimsy continues in monotone. “He could not believe it; it had not happened. He screamed again. His father was fine; it had not happened. Soon they would have tea.”

‘Sir, it appears that holding in laughter in such a manner will only exacerbate your rib injury.’

+

Bucky looks up expectantly as Jimsy quietly comes home. “How’s the Iron Man-Child?”

“Laughed till he cried. Then busted another rib. JARVIS was peeved.”

Bucky holds out his hand for a high-five. It’s smudged with charcoals from Steve’s latest character studies.


	24. the fan, hitting of

“So,” Bucky says, slamming the door with his foot. “You guys wanna talk about it?”

Jimsy and Sam freeze, statues on the couch, with chopsticks raised halfway to their mouths.

“Is this about breaking your toothbrush holder? I'm sorry, I'll replace it as soon as I get to the store.”

“If it's about using up all the eggs last night—”

“It's not,” Bucky says. “But thanks for those confessions. No, this is about the fact that I went to City Hall today—”

Sam winces.

“—to maybe look into possibly getting a marriage license, hypothetically—”

“For Steve?” Jimsy says innocently.

“— _ and discovering that lo and behold, I was already married. _ ”

“Okay,” says Sam, holding up his hands, “Let's all sit down and discuss this rationally.”

+

“Barton? You went to  _ Barton _ for fake ID?”

“Tony, he knew a guy—”

_ “I know a dozen guys!” _

“We didn't want to get anyone in trouble, and you're way more recognizable than Hawkeye—”

“Hey,” Clint protests mildly, wiping guac from his fingers onto his shirt.

“I can't believe what I’m hearing. So Jimsy you're now, what, I can't imagine what name they chose for you—Jim Hawkins? Jimmy Stewart?”

“The ID wasn't for me, Stark,” Jimsy says. “I'm already legally married as James Barnes.”

JB silently revels in the aftermath. Truly no one understands pace and timing like Jimsy. Except maybe Bucky. A sniper thing.

“So,” Tony splutters, “so then who—”

“Me,” Bucky says. “Easier to create a new license for me than voiding theirs. James Rogers, at your service.”

“So is this just a name change,” Tony says snidely, “or did you two assholes go the whole hog and get married on the sly too?”

Bucky is quicker than Steve, but not by enough: the split-second pause hangs dense in the air.

+

_ “Oh my god,” _ someone shrieks in the distance. Darcy pokes her head out from beneath the Beemer she’s repairing.

“Does that sound priority enough to go check it out?”

“Nah,” Peter says, scrolling through his Instagram feed. “Only ranks a four-point-five on the Stark-o-meter.”


	25. twelve days

Steve has been roped into a 6-week undercover assignment, momentarily out of Cap retirement, because no one else can play earnest boyscout like he can. 

Bucky offered to take up the assignment instead of Steve. Fury laughed until tears came to his eyes.

“You,” Maria said incredulously, “a hipster baker in Oakland?”

“Steve and I are actually a couple,” Bucky protested.

“But Sam isn't an asshole to stupid customers,” Maria pointed out.

“I'm nice!”

Then _Maria_ laughed until tears came to her eyes.

+

Jimsy counts down the days until Steve and Sam come home from their undercover-as-hipster-boyfriend-bakers assignment by placing a sparkly sticker on each square of the wall calendar.

Bucky bought him fuzzy cat stickers, because he's an asshole. JB bought him a glittery periodic table.

Jimsy carefully places a shiny pink Boron on today’s date. Bucky is moodily swinging his legs against the counter as he pays bills from his phone.

“You haven't updated your radio drama in a month,” Jimsy says.

“I usually don't update it for a month.”

“But you've usually written the next episode already.”

Bucky shrugs. He catches sight of JB walking to the door with an overnight bag slung across his shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“Stark is doing a 48-hour experiment. He’s made me my own guest room in the tower now.”

“It's the Homecoming Dance tomorrow night,” Bucky frowns.

JB makes a face.

“It's only once, kid,” Bucky says.

“There’s no one I want to go with.”

“Go with friends.”

“It's important to experience things when they're happening,” Jimsy says sagely.

JB makes a true grumpy Bucky face and slips out the door.

Bucky dramatically flings himself across the couch.

"I bet Sam and Steve are having the time of their lives in San Fran.”

Jimsy lays down on top of him. Bucky runs his fingers through Jimsy’s long hair.

“Untrue,” Jimsy says. “Steve is probably crabby and missing you.”

Bucky grunts.

Jimsy traces Bucky’s lips with his finger. “Only twelve more days.”

Bucky pulls Jimsy’s face down. They kiss leisurely for a while, and Bucky strokes his hands up Jimsy’s back. He's always so solid and muscular. Bucky likes the feel of Jimsy’s weight in top of him.

“We can do a twelve days of Christmas thing,” Jimsy offers.

Bucky snorts. “What do you mean?”

“Like a thing every day until they come back. To pass the time.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says after a minute. “Yeah, okay. Should we chaperone the homecoming dance?”

“JB would kill us.”

“Okay. Let's -- let’s sign up for the community garden?”

“Have Thor guest star on your drama.”

“Take JB to that old school boxing club he's been talking about?”

“Get manicures.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Bucky says, and then, “use your metal hand?”


	26. bulge

Jimsy is bored with his part-time Winter Soldier work. He gets a job in retail because the hiring manager looked at his face, not his social interaction ability, and hates it. He quits.

He tries bartending and is overwhelmed, construction and is overheated, and food service and is bored. He applies at a daycare because he's done well raising JB so far, but freezes in the doorway when he sees how small and breakable the toddlers are, and leaves the interview halfway through.

He volunteers for a bit at the botanical gardens. Stark offers him a security job at the Tower, which Jimsy flatly turns down, but this gives him an idea.

He does nighttime security for a small museum for a while, but never gets to see Sam, so eventually transfers to daytime security for a rare books collection for an academic archive.

The librarians like that his metal hand never leaves smudge marks on the fragile original documents. The Board likes that Jimsy is unswayed by the tearful pleas of seventh-year doctoral students who beg for entrance without going through the proper query system.

JB likes it because he can visit Jimsy in a quiet space where no one else will find him. Sam likes it because Jimsy comes home at night less restless.

Bucky likes it because he can visit with a guest pass and read all the academic analyses of the Howling Commandos and all the queer theories respected professors had. He takes sneaky pictures and sends Steve passages of highbrow academic literature debating whether or not he and Steve were fucking.

‘I remember the Battle of the Bulge differently,’ he texts Steve.

‘That's because we weren't even there, asshole,’ Steve replies.

‘You're mistaken. This Doctor of modern warfare has a three-page analysis of a bruise on my neck in this old newsreel. You're sure it wasn't a hickey? Maybe your memory’s going, old man.’

‘As if I would ever leave you a hickey in a visible place,’ Steve responds snippily.


	27. #goals

"Red,” JB suggests.

“Yellow,” says Jimsy.

“Blue,” Bucky says firmly, and holds his feet out toward JB.

JB sighs and paints on the sparkly blue polish.

“Your toes look infected,” Jimsy says.

“They look badass,” Bucky corrects, admiring them.

+

Sam can't stop staring at Jimsy when he gets home. At first he assumes it's because he’s been in the library for the past ten hours, then he realizes, a shiver running up his spine: “You're wearing mascara.”

“And eyeliner,” Jimsy says shyly. “You think it looks good?”

“ _Do I,”_ croaks Sam, and wrestles him against the wall.

+

The next couple of weeks see an influx of Avengers headlines, all with bafflingly loving close-ups of the Winter Soldier and Cap.

The news outlets can't quite figure out what’s different, but Twitter sees an outpouring of #CapMascaraGoals

 


	28. undercover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ nsfw ]

As strange as it was originally to go to bed ultra early to be able to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn, Steve kind of likes it now.

He and Sam are lazing around on the couch as the dusky light slants through the curtains of their flat over the bakery.

“You talk to Buck today?” Sam asks.

“Yesterday,” Steve says. He can only call through the private untraceable line SHIELD provides them; and they're not meant to abuse the privilege too often. But he did secretly buy a burner phone to text. “How is Jimsy?”

“I'm sure he's hacked into the street security cameras by now and has been monitoring us,” Sam says, only half kidding.

Steve snorts. “He sure is cute though.”

“He is, isn't he,” Sam says, proudly. “They're both so pretty.”

“Mm. Especially fresh out of the shower.”

“Yeah. Those shoulders.”

“That ass.”

“Those thighs.”

“Their eyes.”

“Their _eyes,”_ Sam agrees. His hand dips under his waistband.

“Right?” says Steve. His dick is straining against his gym shorts, but he holds off. “And their mouths.”

“Fuck.” Sam’s hand is moving properly now. “And when they glare at you and you know you're supposed to be mad, but those _eyelashes_ \--”

Sam gasps a little as Steve crawls into his lap, kissing him hot and nasty.

_we jerkin g off to you,_ Steve types with his free hand, and Bucky’s response comes instantly and garbled.

**bucky**  
_omfG strVe_

**bucky**  
_you = me or you plural?_

**bucky  
** _Steve I am aT AORK_

**bucky  
** _fury is glaring at me_

**steve  
** _you = you and jim_

**bucky  
** _fUCK send pix_

Steve taps Jimsy into a group message with them. He captions the photos of him on top of Sam; the first three are labeled _your murder strut, your eyes, you fuckin mouth_

**bucky**  
_jfc stevv_

**jimsy**  
_Tell Sam he is the other half of my soul. I can't sleep properly when he's not here. Steve, you'll need to finger him in at least two minutes. Also Steve I miss you._

Steve does as he's told, cackling a little, and leans up to kiss Sam gently.

“I miss them,” Sam says.

“Me too,” says Steve, lining his dick up and then sliding in.

They exhale together.

“It has been nice to spend time together though,” Sam says as Steve thrusts shallowly.

“Yeah,” says Steve, mouthing along Sam’s neck. Sam’s hands are warm and grounding along his side. “And no daily dramas.”

They laugh a little forlornly together, and then Sam says, “ _C’mon,_ Steve,” and Steve groans, because he loves to hear his name in Sam’s voice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then Sam and Steve return from their undercover assignment and bucky clings like an octopus for a week


	29. library

Sarge breaks up with Lily in November, because it just wasn't working and things happen.

Seems fitting though, considering the freak blizzard that hits the day after. He holes up in his apartment for two days under a pile of blankets, bingeing Night Vale, and trying out new cupcake formulas.

He goes to the library the day after the storm to print something, because his piece of shit computer won't connect wirelessly to his piece of shit printer, and sees the cute bedhead librarian behind the counter and wants to die.

+

It's weird sometimes, because of the ace thing, so Sarge doesn't get his hopes up. Also, this cute skinny freckled thing with glasses might not even like guys.

But _Cecil_ , according to his name tag, looks up and promptly turns the color of Stark’s armor. He stammers some sort of hello.

Sarge graces him with a slow, curling Barnes charm smile.

+

Sarge steps up his game from requesting help with the printer (it is legitimately an unnecessarily convoluted process), to asking for scifi recommendations, to volunteering in the evenings sometimes.

He establishes himself as somewhat of a military and WWII expert, and all the former vets who come for computer classes love him.

“Sarge,” Doris calls, “how do I download an attachment again?”

“Doris, the WAC service truly failed you,” Fred says to a chorus of wolf-whistles, and Sarge thanks every star above that it isn't Jimsy teaching this class.

“So,” Sarge says after the class is over, leaning against the circulation desk. It's after nine and the library is officially closed. The only other noise is the buzzing of fluorescent lights.

“So,” Cecil echoes, already blushing a bit. Sarge is so charmed. “Did you check out the _Walking Dead _graphic novels?”__

“I did,” Sarge says. “But I hear I've gotta watch the series too.”

“Probably should,” Cecil says with a shy smile. His eyelashes are so long that they brush against the lenses of his glasses.

Sarge reaches out and adjusts them, because they're slipping down his nose. Cecil swallows.

“Kinda boring watching things alone though.”

“Yeah?” says Cecil, striving for nonchalant but hitting rock-bottom-hopeful.

“Yep,” says Sarge. “And I live above a bakery, did I mention?”

+

“ _Howling?_ You never said you live above _Howling!_ ” says Cecil.

“Didn't know you knew it,” Sarge grins, unlocking the door. They troop up the staircase to the flat above.

Sarge gives him the tour (of all two rooms) and offers him water. Cecil seems suddenly ill at ease. He sits down on the couch to take off his coat and scarf and fix his bootlace.

Sarge sits down next to him with a sinking feeling. It was all going so well -- maybe he moved too fast too soon?

“So…” Cecil says, still staring at his boots. His rubs his hands together; strong, capable hands. “Before we… I just wanted to warn you --”

Sarge waits.

“Me and sex --” Cecil blurts. “It's kind of weird.”

“Oh,” Sarge says, blowing out a breath. “Like you got issues with it or you mostly don't want it at all?”

“Umm,” Cecil scrubs a hand through his hair, looking highly uncomfortable and also afraid. “The second one.”

Sarge leans back into the couch, feeling something loosen inside of him.

“Me too,” he says, with a feeling of both relief and vertigo -- because this feels important and weighty. “Like, sometimes -- every once in a blue moon -- I'll want it, just... not enough to do something about it.”

“Oh my god, _same_ ,” says Cecil, falling back into the cushions. “I mean. I like kissing. A lot.”

“Oh yeah?” says Sarge. He leans forward. “That's real good. So do I. How about cuddling?”

“So much,” Cecil breathes, and leans forward the rest of the way.

His lips are soft and warm. Sarge pulls him into his lap, curling an arm around his waist. Cecil’s hands move up to cup Sarge’s face, and he feels _so warm_ and protected.

“Wow,” Sarge croaks, when they break for air.

“Wow,” Cecil agrees, cuddling up against Sarge’s shoulder.

+

“I mean, it's a boon, really,” says Cecil, stirring sugar into his tea. Sarge likes how at home Cecil looks in Sarge’s kitchen. “Every time a friend of mine fucks up, it's because they're thinking with the wrong head.”

Sarge snorts. “Wait’ll you meet my brother Bucky. When he and his husband Steve get all worked up, there is no getting sense outta them for days. What?” he says bemusedly, because Cecil has bent over, cackling.

“Bucky and Steve,” he gasps. “Oh man. That's hilarious. Sorry. History nerd. Remind me to send you some links tonight, you'll get a kick out of it.”

“Sure,” Sarge says, with a crooked smile and even more crooked eyebrow.

“Is Bucky your only sibling?”

“Naw, there's Jimsy too. Us three are triplets. And we got this genius kid brother too. Way too smart for his own good.”

“Send him to me at the library,” Cecil says. “I'll keep him out of trouble.”

“It's more getting him _into_ trouble that's the issue, if you get what I mean,” Sarge says.

“Ah,” Cecil grins. “Then still send him to me at the library, but when all the other teens are volunteering too. They'll set him straight. So to speak.”

Sarge has to lean in for a kiss before herding Cecil into the living room. “C’mon. We’ve got zombies to start caring about.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bi ace sarge is my jam


	30. historical society

Hey,” Cecil says, lighting up as Sarge strolls in with a commission of two dozen buttercream ‘capcakes’ for a historical society meeting.

“Hey yourself,” says Sarge, gingery kissing Cecil hello, because these boxes are huge and rickety and you should never sabotage a historical society’s sugar intake. “How're things today?”

“Ugh. Lots of stupidity today. Lots of arrogance too.”

“I gotta kick someone’s ass?”

“I took care of it. Thanks though.”

Cecil smiles and chucks Sarge’s chin, which is ridiculous, because he’s shorter and skinnier and bespectacled and Sarge totally gets now how Bucky was so enamored with Steve when he was small and skinny.

“Met a nice older lady this morning though -- a real scifi geek. We had a good talk.”

“Good.”

“Also there was a weird thing,” Cecil says suddenly. His plaid shirt gets caught on the desk. He yanks it free, messing up his skinny tie in the process. (This dork has a _master’s degree,_ Sarge thinks, starry-eyed.) “Two guys were lurking around earlier.”

“Lurking, huh.”

“Yep. Just before the metal detectors. They kept whispering and glancing my way, and dodging out of sight when I looked.”

Warning bells go off in Sarge’s head. “Oh yeah?”

“Yep. One was really loud, but clearly trying not to be, and ran into the wall several times. The other just stared.” Cecil pauses. “Kind of intense. Had a metal arm.”

“A metal arm,” Sarge repeats. “You pulling my leg?”

“Also they looked just like you,” Cecil drops.

Sarge can't stop a bellow of laughter. “Goddamn it, those idiots.”

Cecil was grinning. “Which one looks like he got locked in the loungewear section of Costco?”

“That's Bucky.”

“So Jimsy is the scowling underwear model?”

“Oh Jesus, don't tell Buck that. He’s touchy about being the handsome one. That kid is so vain.”

“ _You’re_ the handsome one,” Cecil says. “But my lips are sealed.”

Cecil’s boss Rita comes hobbling out of the meeting room, on broken heels as usual, and with a manic look of caffeine withdrawal.

“Come by the bakery after work,” Sarge says in undertone.

Cecil winks at him and turns to the tiny old man who is waving a large-print version Dorothy Sayers in his face.


	31. tuesday

Steve gets out of the shower Tuesday morning and Bucky is gone.

Well. He and his keys and boots are gone, so Steve assumes he left voluntarily.

But that's not how anxiety works, so Steve brings his laptop to Howling to do work and then to Cecil’s library when that closes.

It's not that they're codependent or that Steve doesn't like being without him. He does. A lot. He just gets antsy when it’s unexpected.

Steve is distracting Cecil from his pre-ordering by asking about his undergrad Art History degree and Cecil is distracting Steve from his logo redesign by asking about the graphic novel Steve is secretly planning (how did he guess?), so Steve accidentally misses three calls.

  
He phones Jimsy back first.

“The washing machine is broken,” he says.

Steve rubs his face. “I'll call someone tomorrow. We can use the laundromat till then.”

“I will call them,” Jimsy surprises Steve by saying, and hangs up.

He calls Clint back next.

“I haven't seen Natasha in three days,” Clint says, his calm tinged on the edge of panic.

“Hang on,” Steve tells him. He dials the third missed call and then redials Clint. “She’s with Bucky.”

“Okay. Like. For all three days?”

“For the last three hours. Want to come hang at the library with Cecil and I?”

“Fuck, that sounds… so boring. But I want to bug Cecil. Okay. I'll bring a movie and popcorn.”

“The library closes in an hour.”

“So he can keep it open for an impromptu movie night,” Clint says and hangs up.

“I don't think Clint knows what public service is,” Steve says as his battery threatens to die.

“Isn't he kind of a government employee?” Cecil says, handing Steve a charging cord.

“Against his better knowledge,” says Steve, who isn't sure to what extent Sarge explained about their strange little friend group. His phone whines.

“What movie is he bringing?”

“Either _Airbud_ or _Some Like It Hot_.”

Cecil stares at him, half smiling. “Those are the only options?” he jokes.

“Yes,” Steve says seriously.


	32. lease

It arrived in the mail Saturday evening. And waited.

She went so far as to search craigslist sublets in Toronto, which had always sounded nice and anonymous enough, and ‘roommate wanted’ ads in Hoboken and Yonkers.

“You’d die in Hoboken,” Bucky snorts.

“Wouldn’t be tied down though,” she said, rubbing her hands together. The conductor stops the rehearsal to give the viola section notes.

“A lease is only a year,” Bucky says reasonably, whispering despite the break in music.

Natasha gives him a look.

“Okay, but you can always get a subletter to take over the lease.”

“Yeah. I know.”

The open rehearsal starts up again and they listen for a while.

“I’m gonna have to move,” Natasha says. “Rent is going up. And then it's security deposits and broker fees and first month’s rent --”

“You can move in with Clint,” Bucky suggests.

She lets out a slow breath.

“Yeah,” she says. “That's what I thought too.”

+

“I mean…” Bucky runs a hand through his hair. “I'm not the best guy to talk to about this, ya know? Steve and I have been together since we hit puberty.”

“But you've dumped other girls and guys before.”

“Yeah. Fair point. I mean -- it sucks, but he’ll be okay. If you don't love him anymore -- it happens, ya know?”

“Yeah but…” She looks up at him, pleading. “What if this is just me freaking out?”

“If you freak out about a lease, it's because you don't like to be tied down. If you freak out about being tied down with your boyfriend, maybe it's time to think about why.”

“I am,” she says, sad and sure.

“Okay.”

Bucky reaches over and takes her hand. They listen in silence until the rehearsal is over and the ushers wafflingly herd the audience out.

+

“It's going to be weird, isn't it?” she says.

“When _isn't_ it weird, with this group?” Bucky says. “I hook up with myself sometimes.”

“When you put it that way,” Natasha says, and lays the groundwork for a casual hangout with Sharon next week.


	33. turkey day

Stark refuses to celebrate Thanksgiving because, paraphrased, ‘bah humbug.’ And he accidentally goes on a four-day invention bender anyhow, because Pepper is visiting her family and she is basically his calendar, clock, and circadian rhythm.

Whatever the case, when Bucky gets a call at 4am on Thanksgiving morning, he assumes it's his alarm telling him to put the turkey in. He stumbles to the kitchen and then back to bed.

Steve curls against him, soaking up the cold morning air, and murmurs, “Go put the turkey in or you'll kick yourself.”

“I just did, babe.”

“Then why is the buzzer still going off?”

Bucky makes the connection and looks at his screen. “ _Shit_.” He picks up. “I thought you were in your room!”

“I was,” says JB. “I left an hour ago.”

Bucky shows up to Stark Tower 100% expecting it to be on fire. He barely parks Steve’s bike, blanks Vision on the way in, and bursts into the lab with a med kit.

By the time Steve arrives four minutes later, via cab, the flooding has been staunched, JB’s nose has stopped bleeding, and Stark’s newly discovered peanut allergy has been abated.

“This is clearly Hyrda sabotage,” Stark rages. “A food allergy? _Me_?”

“Adult-onset allergies aren't unheard of,” Sam says, having just landed on the roof with his wings.

“I'm Iron Man!”

“And now you're Iron Man who can never again eat Chick-fil-A. I was _sleeping_ , Tony. It is a _national holiday.”_

“They're bigots anyway, I guess,” Stark grumps, “and you’re welcome for allowing you to see this beautiful sunrise.”


	34. hanging out

Natasha and Sharon have been hanging out for a couple of weeks and it's _cool_ , it's super cool, and they both have kissed Steve Rogers at one point for undercover purposes but that doesn't mean either of them are heterosexual, right?

Actually, Natasha can divine very little about Sharon’s preferences because she, like Maria, is pretty much married to work, which is super unhelpful for working up the courage to asking Sharon out.

Also Natasha kind of hates the name Sharon. Or she did.

The weird thing is happening where she’s starting to like a name she once disliked, solely because it belongs to this hyper-rational blonde, with dimples that come out faster than her glock.

Natasha is so fucked.

“I am so fucked,” she says to Jimsy after a debrief wherein Sharon sat across the table from them in full tac gear.

Jimsy raises an eyebrow. “Isn't that the goal?”

Natasha splutters a bit, because she never expects Jimsy to be this self-aware. But then she remembers that he's married to _Sam Wilson_ , so really he's doing better than most of them.

“You’re afraid to start anything because you're on the same team?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“And you've already dated a coworker before.”

“Yeah.”

Jimsy clicks his teeth. “Well. Everyone dies eventually.”


	35. shower

It happens slowly but also all at once, like so many things.

They're on a mission together, a rare one where Sharon isn't undercover and sent in weeks ahead for groundwork. They're in and out in a couple days, and then Sharon is brought back to New York for debriefing.

“You gonna stay in the tower?” Natasha asks her. “Please tell me you didn't take them up on the safe house.”

“Are you kidding? I got a staph infection the last time I was in one of those.”

“Oh _god_. Well, I think Thor’s around this week, you can get some quality time with him.”

“Nice,” Sharon says.

There’s not a soul that Sharon doesn't get along with, but Natasha has watched Thor try to bond with her before. It mostly consists of him (well-meaningly) telling booming tales of his bravery and the bravery of his Jane.

Natasha ate pretzels while watching the glaze seep across Sharon’s face.

“Or,” Natasha says, her words sliding together a bit, “you can crash with me. My couch is a pull-out and it's surprisingly comfy --”

“Okay,” says Sharon.

“-- and I'm a good roommate, I don't smother you or wake up too early --”

“Let's go,” Sharon grins. “I'm dying for a shower. I think I have bits of prosthetic face mask stuck on.”

“Gross,” Natasha says, a smile threatening to break.

But her original plan was just one big blank after popping the question, and now she has no idea what to do with herself.

Luckily Sharon has that rare and happy ability of a social facilitator -- and keeps up a steady stream of chatter until they reach Natasha’s apartment.

“I never bring anyone here,” Natasha says, which is … a total lie, and she doesn't quite know why she said it.

“Yeah?” Sharon says lightly, unfooled.

“Like -- to socialize,” Natasha tries to explain.

She brings hookups back, and usually hates it because hookups are awkward and terrible and maybe she’s in the grayscale? who knows, so then she hustles them out as quick as possible.

She doesn't have people she _cares_ about in her apartment.

“Um, you want to shower first or --?”

“Shower,” Sharon says. “Want to come along?”

Natasha’s brain fizzles. “What?”

Sharon falters. She smiles ruefully. “Did I misread?”

“No! I want --”

Natasha _does_ want, so badly, but somehow Sharon has gotten the upper hand here and it’s throwing Natasha off.

“Next time,” Natasha promises.

“Sure,” Sharon says. “Any special tricks for the shower?”

Natasha’s brain does that fizzling thing again.

“Do you have to turn the handle a certain way or push any special buttons?” Sharon continues innocently.

“Nope, normal shower,” says Natasha, and then she's sitting on the couch by herself, listening to the soothing patter of water against tile.


	36. home for the holidays

When Sarge asks Cecil if he's leaving town for Christmas, Cecil glances over his glasses and says, “My family all comes here for Chanukah because my parents are in Queens.”

Sarge nearly kisses him but resists. They're in public; it still makes him squidgy.

“How did I not know you were a nice Jewish boy?” Sarge murmurs. “My ma would be weeping in joy.”

Cecil turns, bright eyed. He sways a little from the train’s rhythm. “I figured you guys were Irish Catholic.”

“I mean --” He’s not totally wrong. “Okay, you know when people tell you a fantastical story that sounds 500% too ridiculous to be true?”

+

“Separated at birth?” Cecil repeats.

“Yeah. And uh, Jimsy didn't have the best childhood, if you get my drift. I guess neither did Buck, for that matter.”

“You and JB?” Cecil asks, tentative.

Sarge pauses. “Better than most.”

Cecil reaches out and squeezes his hand. They're speaking softly, so as not to be overheard, and the train squealing into the station is jarring.

“So Bucky’s --?”

“Catholic-ish. Jimsy likes to hear about everything, story-wise. He goes to church with Sam sometimes because Sam sings in the choir.”

“Oh my god,” says Cecil.

“I know,” says Sarge. “He's unreal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dirtybinary](http://dirtybinary.tumblr.com) was like, in my head this is cecil from nightvale, and now this has 100% seeped into my headcanon too


	37. helping hand

"You want to talk about it?” Bucky asks, leaning in the doorway like he’s Steve Rogers™.

JB says as much, and Bucky gets all offended, rocketing off the doorjamb and slouching with his hands in his pockets instead.

“You should find Steve anyway,” JB adds. “I think he's gardening at the community space. He left twenty minutes ago, so he's probably already fed up.”

“Good distraction technique,” Bucky says. “I'll thank Jimsy later for teaching you. You're not the only one in this apartment who has nightmares, you know.”

“Oh really?” JB sneers, as if his room isn't right beside the kitchen and at least 2.5 people on average per night shuffle around for decaf tea at 3am.

Sam ambushes him the next morning at breakfast. He tosses a circle of leather and string at JB.

JB misses the catch. It hits him in the face.

“What the hell,” he says, fishing the thing out of his jacket.

“It's for you,” Sam says. “Jimsy’s idea.”

“But what is it?”

Sam eyes him.

“Right,” he mutters. “Eastern Europe. My granddad was Sioux, did you know?”

JB shakes his head.

“Hang it above your bed,” Sam says. “Maybe it'll help.”

“Thanks,” JB says politely, after a beat, and tucks it into his pocket.

+

“A normal kid would crawl into bed with his parents,” Jimsy says, curling around Sam.

“A normal kid has parents.”

“Point. Are all of us Jameses too proud to ask for help?”

“Yes,” says Sam.

 


	38. shower

Natasha raps on the bathroom door. “Are you Bucky or Sharon?”

“Jimsy,” says a very female Sharon Carter voice.

Natasha smiles and lets herself inside. “Jimsy wouldn't be caught dead in my apartment. There is 12% too much dust.”  

“I can't believe Bucky would come this far north,” says Sharon, a foggy shape through the glass door. “Actually, I can't believe Bucky would voluntarily leave Brooklyn.”

“Sometimes Steve can be intense.”

“Huh. Yeah, I guess.”

Natasha steps over their heap of clothes on the floor and hops into the shower, shivering.

“Does Bucky have a key?” Sharon asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

Natasha kisses her forehead. She’ll never admit that she loves it when Sharon’s jealous. “Never. But that doesn't stop him from breaking in.”

Sharon relaxes marginally. She steps back so Natasha can get under the water.

“He just watches Netflix and reorganizes my apartment as far as I can tell. He's the only person still into feng shui.”

Natasha rests her hands on Sharon’s hips as Sharon shampoos Natasha's hair. She skims her thumbs over soft skin.

“When do you head back to DC?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I bet you're glad that Berlin stint is over.” But what she means is _I'm_ _glad that Berlin stint is over._

“Yeah,” Sharon says. “Rinse.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://sonatine.tumblr.com)


End file.
